Peter Rosegger - I.N.R.I.

P >> Peter Rosegger >> I.N.R.I.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

I. N. R. I.

A Prisoner's Story of the Cross

by

PETER ROSEGGER

Translated by Elizabeth Lee

Hodder and Stoughton Limited
London
First Edition, September, 1905.
Second Edition, September, 1905.
Third Edition, December, 1905.
Made and Printed in Great Britain.
Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham

PROLOGUE

The difficult path which leads to the gardens where the waters of life
sparkle, takes us first to a big city in which the hearts of men
pulsate with feverish unrest.

There is such a great crowd in the broad square in front of the law
courts that the electric cars are forced to stop. Six or eight of them
are standing in a row, and the police cannot break through the crowd.
Every one is making for the law courts; some hurry forward excitedly,
others push their way through quietly, and fresh streams of people from
the side streets are continually joining the rest. The public
prosecutor is expected every moment to appear on the balcony and
announce the verdict to the public.

Every one was indulging in remarks about the prisoner who had wished to
do so terrible a deed.

"He is condemned, sure enough!" shouted one man. "The like of him gets
to Heaven with a hempen cord!"

"Don't be silly," said another, with lofty superiority. "In half an
hour at most he'll pass the gate a free man. Juries don't condemn the
like of him."

Many agreed with the first speaker, but more with the last.

"Whoever believes that he'll be let off is a fool!" shouted some one.
"Just consider what he did, what he wished to do!"

"He wanted to do a splendid thing!"

Passionate discussion and wagering began. It would have struck a keen
observer that good broadcloth expected condemnation, while fustian and
rags eagerly desired acquittal. A big man of imposing presence asked
in a loud tone, over the heads of the people, if anyone would bet him
ten ducats that the wretch would hang.

A starved-looking little fellow declared himself willing to take up the
bet. The handsome man turned his head in its silk hat, and when he saw
the starved, undersized creature, murmured sleepily, "He! he'll bet ten
ducats with me! My dear sir, you'd better go home to your mother and
ask her to give you a couple of pennies."

Laughter followed; but it was interrupted. The crowd swayed suddenly,
as when a gust of wind passes over the surface of water. A man
appeared on the balcony of the law courts. He had a short, dark beard;
his head with its high forehead was uncovered. He stepped forward
ceremoniously to the railing, and raised his hand to enforce silence.
And when the murmur of the crowd died away, he exclaimed in a thin
voice, but pronouncing every syllable clearly, "The prisoner, Konrad
Ferleitner, is found guilty by a majority of two-thirds of the jury,
and in the name of his Majesty the King is condemned to die by hanging."

He stood for a moment after making the announcement, and then went back
into the house. A few isolated exclamations came from the crowd.

"To make a martyr of him! Enthusiasm is infectious!"

"An enthusiast! If he's an enthusiast, I'm a rascal!"

"Why not?" replied a shock-headed man with a laugh.

"Move on!" ordered the police, who were now reinforced by the military.
The crowd yielded on all sides, and the tram rails were once more free.

A few minutes later a closed carriage was driven along the same road.
The glint of a bayonet could be seen through the window. The crowd
flocked after the carriage, but it went so swiftly over the paved road
that the dust flew up under the horses' hoofs, and at length it
vanished in the poplar avenue that led to the prison. Some of the
people stopped, panting, and asked each other why they had run so fast.
"It won't take place to-day. We shall see in the papers when it's to
come off."

"Do you think so? I tell you it's only for specially invited and
honoured guests! The times when executions were conducted in public
are gone, my dear fellow. The people are kept out of the way."

"Patience, my wise compeer! It'll be a people's holiday when the
hangman is hung."

The crowd melted into the ordinary traffic of the street.

A slender, stooping man sat handcuffed between two policemen in the
carriage that rolled along the avenue. He breathed so heavily that his
shoulders heaved up and down. He wore his black coat today, and white
linen appeared at neck and sleeves. His hair was reddish brown, he had
brushed it carefully, and cheeks and chin were shaved smoothly. He had
felt sure that the day would restore him to liberty, or promise it him
at no very distant date. His pale face and sunken cheeks proclaimed
him about forty, but he might have been younger. His blue eyes had a
far-away, dreamy expression, but they were now full of terror. His
face would have been handsome had not the look of terror spoiled it.
His fettered hands lay on his knees, which were closely pressed
together, his fingers were intertwined, his head sunken so that his
chin was driven into his chest: he looked an utterly broken man. He
drew in his legs so that the policemen might be more comfortable. One
of them glanced at him sideways, and wondered how this gentle creature
could have committed such a crime.

They drove alongside the wall of the large building, the gate of which
was now opened. In the courtyard the poor sinner was taken out of the
carriage and led through a second gate into an inner courtyard where
his handcuffs were removed. He was led through vaulted corridors in
which here and there small doors with barred windows might be seen.
The dark passage had many windings, and was lighted by an occasional
lamp. The air was cold and damp. The openings high up in the wall,
through which glimmered a pale daylight, became rarer, until at length
it was as dark as the tomb. The new arrival was received by the
gaoler, a man with bristly grey hair, a prominent forehead, and
pronounced features which incessant ill-humour had twisted into a
lasting grimace. Who would not be ill-humoured indeed, were he forced
to spend a blameless life in a dungeon among thieves and murderers and
even--worst of all--among those who had been foolishly led astray?
Directly he saw the tottering, shadowy figure of the prisoner come
round the pillar, he knew the blow had fallen. Midnight had struck for
the poor fellow. Annoyed that such people should let themselves be so
stupidly taken by surprise, he had continually snubbed him harshly.
To-day he accompanied him to his cell in silence, and when opening it
avoided rattling the keys. But he could not help looking through the
spy-hole to see what the poor fellow would do. What he saw was the
condemned man falling on to the brick floor and lying there motionless.
The gaoler was alarmed, and opened the door again. So the man was
clever enough to die quickly? That would be a miscarriage! But the
culprit moved slightly, and begged to be left alone.

And he was alone, once again in this damp room with the wooden bench,
the straw mattress, the water-jug on a table--things which during the
long period of probation he had gazed at a hundred times, thinking of
nothing but "They must acquit me." Out of the planks that propped up
the straw mattress he had put together a kind of table, a work of which
the gaoler disapproved, but he had not destroyed it. High up in the
wall was a small barred window, through which mercifully came the
reflection from an outer opposite wall, now lighted by the sun. The
edge of a steep gabled roof and a chimney could be just seen through
the window, and in between peeped a three-cornered piece of blue sky.
That was the joy of the cell. Konrad did not know that he owed this
room to special kindness. The scanty light from above had been a
comfort, almost a promise, all the weary weeks: "They will send you a
free man out into the sunshine!" By slow degrees that hope was
extinguished in his lonely soul. And to-day? The little bit of
reflection was a mockery to him. He wanted no more twilight. Daylight
was gone for ever--he longed for darkness. Night! night! Night would
be so heavy and dark that he would not behold his misery, even
inwardly. He could not think; he felt stifled, giddy, as if someone
had struck him on the head with a club.

When the gaoler on his rounds peeped through the spy-hole again and saw
the man still lying on the floor, he grew angry. He noisily opened the
little door. "By Jove, are you still there? Number 19! Do you hear?
Is anything the matter?" The last words were spoken almost gently; a
stupid fellow might imagine that he was pitied. But that was not the
case. As a man sows, he reaps.

The prisoner stood up quickly and looked distractedly about him. When
he recognised the gaoler he felt for his hand. He grasped it firmly,
and said hoarsely: "I want to ask something. Send me a priest."

"Oh, at last!" grumbled the old man. "These atheists! In the end they
crawl to the Cross."

"I'm not an atheist," calmly replied the prisoner.

"No? Well, it's all the same. You shall have a father-confessor."

Konrad had not meant a confessor. To set himself right with God? That
might come with time. But what he now most desired was a human being.
No one else would come. No one will have anything to do with a ruined
man. Each man thanks God that he is not such a one. But the priest
must come.

In about half an hour the condemned man started, every sound at the
door alarmed him--some one came. A monk quietly entered the cell. He
slipped along in sandals. The dull light from the window showed an old
man with a long, grey beard and cheerful-looking eyes. His gown of
rough cloth was tied round the waist with a white cord, from which a
rosary hung. He greeted the prisoner, reaching for his hand: "May I
say good evening? I should like to, if I may."

"I sent for you, Father. I don't know if you are aware how things are
with me," said Konrad.

"Yes, I know, I know. But the Lord is nearer to you to-day than He was
yesterday," replied the monk.

"I have many things to say," said Konrad, hesitatingly. "But I don't
want to confess. I want a man to talk to."

"You want to ease your heart, my poor friend," said the monk.

"You come to me because it's your duty," returned Konrad. "It's not
pleasant. You have to comfort us, and don't know how to do it.
There's nothing left for me."

"Don't speak like that," said the Father. "If I understand rightly,
you have not summoned me as a confessor. Only as a man, isn't that it?
And I come willingly as such. I can't convert you. You must convert
yourself. Imagine me to be a brother whom you haven't seen for a long
time. And now he comes and finds you here, and wellnigh weeping asks
you how such a thing could have happened."

The prisoner sat down on the bench, folded his hands, and bent his head
and murmured; "I had a brother. If he had lived I should not be here.
He was older than I."

"Have you no other relatives?" asked the monk.

"My parents died before I was twelve years old. Quickly, one after the
other. My father could not survive my mother. My mother--a poor, good
woman; always cheerful, pious. In the village just outside. No one
could have had a happier childhood. Ah! forgive me----" His words
seemed to stick in his throat.

"Compose yourself!" counselled the priest. "Keep your childhood in
your memory! It is a light in such days."

"It is over," said Konrad, controlling his sobs. "Father, that memory
does not comfort me; it accuses me more heavily. How can such
misfortune come from such blessing? If only I dared kneel now before
my God--and thank Him that she did not live to see this day."

"Well, well!" said the Father. "Other mothers had different
experiences with other sons."

"I would sacrifice everything too for the sake of our dear Lady,"
muttered Konrad.

"That's right," returned the Father. "Now tell me more. Quite young,
then, you lived among strangers, eh?"

He uttered confusedly: "After the deaths of my father and mother I was
apprenticed. To a joiner. That was a splendid time. Only I read a
great deal too much to please the master--all sorts of things, and
dreamed about them. And I didn't wish to do anything wrong, at least
so I imagined. The master called me a stupid visionary, and gave me
the sack. Then came a period of wandering--Munich, Cologne, Hamburg.
I was two years with a master at Cologne. If only I had stayed with
him! He didn't want to let me go--and there was a daughter. Then to
Hamburg. That was bad luck. I was introduced into a Society for the
protection of the people against traitors. To be a saviour, to risk
one's life! It came to me very slowly, quite gradually, what was the
misery of living under such tyranny. When a boy I once killed a dog
that bit some poor people's children in the street. A dog belonging to
gentlefolk! I was whipped, but it scarcely hurt--there was always in
my mind; 'You freed them from the beast!' And I felt just the same
about the Society. I can't tell you what went on in me. I'm all
bewildered. Everything was laid bare at the trial, the whole horrible
story. Only I said yes with hundreds of others, I said it and thought:
it won't come to me. And it did come to me, as if our Lord had not
wished it otherwise. To me, the lot fell to me, when we drew."

"I know the story, my poor fellow," said the monk.

"I don't," retorted Konrad. "From the moment they took the revolver
out of my hand everything has been dark. I have known nothing. I only
heard to-day that he lives. And they told me----"

"What did they tell you?"

"That I must die." Then violently addressing the priest: "It was a
misfortune. Is it really so great a crime? Tell me."

"I don't think I need tell you that."

"Very well, then. So it serves me right. I desired to do the deed,
and they say that's the same as the accomplishment of it. Quite
correct. Isn't it 'A life for a life'? It is written so in the Bible.
Just that, no more. They must take mine. But--they must do it
unexpectedly, suddenly. Just as I meant to do to him. Otherwise it
won't be fair. Tell me, holy Father, is it cowardly to be so
terrified? I am so terrified--of what is before me. There's nothing
about this terror of death in the Scriptures. Those who settled my
fate to-day looked like men. Then they ought to know that they are
executing me a thousand times, not once. Why do I still live, I who
was slain three hours ago! Quick! From behind! If only they were so
merciful! One of them said to-day it was my duty to die. My God! I
think I have the right to die, and they're the criminals! They haven't
secured me my rights at once! It would have been over by now. O God,
my God, if only it were over!"

So he raged on, wringing his hands, groaning under the torture.
Suddenly his face became deathly white and his features stiffened as if
his heart had ceased beating.

"Poor fellow," said the priest, putting his arm round his neck and
drawing his head down on his breast. "You mustn't talk like that.
Think, if we've been sinners all our lives, oughtn't we to spend a few
days in repenting? Tell me, brother, don't you desire the consolations
of religion?"

"Indeed I do," stammered the poor sinner. "And so I asked----"

"You see, I am ready."

"And I also want the Gospels, if I may be allowed the book."

The monk looked at him, then demanded quietly:

"You want the New Testament?"

"I should like to read in it. My mother had one and used to read it
aloud and explain it. It would give me a home-like feeling if I could
read in it now."

The Father replied: "I'll tell you something, my dear friend. The
Gospel is a very good book, not in vain is it called the glad tidings."

"My God! yes; what do I need more sorely now than glad tidings?" agreed
Konrad.

"Of course. But the book's not an easy one. Out of ten readers
there's hardly one who understands it. And even he doesn't really
understand it. It's too profound, I might say, too divine a book; as
they say, seven times sealed. Therefore it must be explained by
experts. I will willingly go through certain parts of it with you
occasionally, but I shall give you something else for your edification,
from which you will derive comfort and peace."

Konrad covered his face with his hands, and said, almost inaudibly:
"The Gospel is what I should have liked best."

And then the monk said gravely: "My friend, you are the sick man and I
am the physician. And the physician knows best what will do the sick
man good. You should also prepare yourself for taking the Sacrament."

As the poor sinner said no more, the priest spoke a few kind words and
left him. An hour later the gaoler brought him a parcel of books.
"The holy brother sends them so that you can amuse yourself a little."

Amusement! It was a cruel joke. Konrad gave a shrill laugh. It was
the laugh of a despairing man who cannot shut out the vision of his
last journey, which became more hideous every moment. What did the
Father send? Simple prayer-books and religious manuals. Book-markers
were placed to show the passages that applied especially to the
penitent and the dying man, and also prayers for poor souls in
purgatory. The soul physician, all unacquainted with souls, sent the
inconsolable man new anguish of death instead of life. Konrad searched
for the bread he needed, turned over the leaves of the books, began to
read here and there, but always put them down sadly. The more eagerly
did he exercise his memory in order to recall the pictures of his
childhood. His mother, who had been dead many years, stood before him
in order to help her unhappy child. Her figure, her words, her songs,
her sacred stories from the Saviour's life on earth--brought peace to
his soul. It suddenly came upon him; "God has not forgotten me." Just
as before he had raged in despair, so now beautiful shadows out of the
past appeared before him, and tears of redemption flowed from his eyes.

He did not have an hour's sleep the night of his condemnation. He
prayed, he dreamed, and then the horrid terror, which made him shiver
in all his limbs, came again. He kept looking towards the window to
see if daylight was beginning. Early in the morning, just at the first
dawn--so he had often heard--the warders come. The window showed only
darkness. But look, in the little three-cornered bit of sky, there is
a star. He had not seen it on other nights. It sailed up to the crack
in the roof and shone down through the window in kindly fashion. His
eye was riveted on the spark of light until it vanished behind the
walls. When at length day dawned, and the key rattled in the door,
Konrad's hands and feet began to tremble. It was the gaoler, who
brought him a bundle of coarse cotton clothing.

When Konrad asked in a dull voice if it was his gallows dress, the old
man answered roughly: "What are you chattering about? Put on your
house clothes."

The convict went up to the gaoler, clasped his hands, and said: "Only
one thing, if I knew--when, when? This suspense is unbearable!"

"Eh! how impatient we are!" mocked the old man. "My dear fellow, we
don't do things so quickly. The decision was only made yesterday.
Why, they haven't yet settled about the banquet."

"The banquet!"

"The bill of fare--don't you understand? No orders have come yet.
You're safe for twenty-four hours. But if there's anything you'd like
to eat--I'll make an exception for once. And now, get on with your
toilet! You can will away your own things as you please," he pointed
to his clothes. "Have you anyone? No? Well, I know some poor people.
But get on, get on. The hot season is coming on, and cotton isn't bad
wear then."

The rough gaoler's good-humoured chatter was particularly distasteful
to the poor man. To be snubbed and railed at would have pointed to a
long life to come, one not to be measured by hours. Did he know? And
was he silent out of pity? or was it malice? Before, the old man had
been easily moved to anger, and when heated would swing his arms up and
down and plainly threaten to have the obstinate convict sent off. Now
there was no more grim humour nor raging round. He looked at the poor
sinner, sunk in deep gloom, with a sad calmness. "Poor devil!"
Suddenly it was too much for him, and he broke out violently: "But come
now! You must have known it. Be sensible; I can't stand this misery.
Dying is not easy, of course; you should be glad that there's someone
by to help. And then--who knows whether you won't live after all. Do
be sensible!"

When at last deep silence again gathered round him, the prisoner tried
his books afresh. The Father had provided for a varied taste. The
"Devotion to the Holy Rosary," the "Prayers to the Virgin's Heart,"
"Death, Judgment, Heaven and Hell," the "Life of St. Theresa," "The
Seven Bolts of Heaven," and "Prayers of Intercession for Souls in
Distress." What a wealth of edification! The joiner's apprentice had
always loved books. He had once reckoned out as a joke that three
asses could not carry the books which he had read since his childhood.
They had afforded him a glimpse of all times and places, and of all
provinces of human life. Now he asked himself what it had all brought
him. Confusion, perplexity, nothing besides. He had thought about
everything, but he could not be clear about anything. That was not
generally possible, he had read in one of the books, and the statement
pacified him. He had read all kinds of theological books, had easily
and trustfully given himself up to the echo of words heard in
childhood, but it had not gone deeper. Now that they ought to prove
their worth, they left him in the lurch. He turned over the pages, he
read and prayed and sought, and found nothing to relieve his need.
Discouraged, he pushed the books away from him, and some of them fell
over the edge of the table on to the brick floor.

In the night that followed Konrad had a dream, vivid and clear as never
dream had been. It was a dark country, and he had lost his way. He
wandered about amid cold, damp rocks, and could not find a path. Then
his fingers felt a thread; he seized it, and it guided him through the
darkness. The land grew brighter and brighter; the thread brought him
into his sunny native valley, to the place with the old gabled houses,
to his father's house which stood amidst the fruit-trees, and the
thread to which his fingers still clung involuntarily led him into the
room where it had been spun from his mother's distaff. And there she
sat and span the thread, with her pale face and soft wrinkles and kind
eyes, and directly the boy stood near her she told him tales of the
Saviour. He listened to her and was a happy child. That was his
dream. And when he awoke in the prison cell, his mother's gentle voice
still sounded in his ears: "My child, you must cling to Jesus."

Konrad was taken every day for half an hour into the dirty and sunless
courtyard. But he dreaded that half-hour. It stirred a vain longing
for light. And the rough and insolent fellow-prisoners with whom he
was brought in contact! He preferred to be alone in his quiet cell.

During his imprisonment he had often asked for work, but was always
informed that nothing of the sort had been provided for by the
authorities. Besides--work was an honourable thing, and it must first
be proved that he was worthy of it. But now it was not a time for
work, rather a time for preparation. What could he do in order to get
through these days? Or what could he do in order to keep the days from
flying so quickly? Look how a flash of lightning seems sometimes to
pass over the floor. Then it is gone again. High up in the opposite
wall, on which the sun sometimes shone, was a casement window, and its
glass doors, swayed by the breeze, were reflected in the prison.
Konrad was terrified by these sparks from heaven; he would grope on the
ground as if for a gold piece that had rolled away.

Then came visitors, unexpected, alarming visitors! The judge's stiff
figure and serious face appeared in company with the gaoler.

Konrad felt stunned, and could only think: "The hour has come!" The
man had pronounced his sentence as coldly and unfeelingly as if he had
been a machine which, when its keys are pressed, gives forth sounds
like words. The judge ordered the gaoler to withdraw. The old man
hesitated--what could that mean? The judge had to repeat his order
before the old man would go. When the judge was alone with the
prisoner, he bent down and felt with his hands, for he was not yet
accustomed to the darkness. Then he said kindly: "Konrad Ferleitner, I
have come to ask you if there's anything you wish for?"

The prisoner wrung his hands convulsively; wild pulsations, that beat
in strong double strokes at irregular intervals, coursed through his
body. So violent was his agitation that the poor wretch stuttered
forth words that the judge could not understand.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20